


Yak Butter

by lferion



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Food, M/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-03
Updated: 2008-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Running leads to bed and butter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yak Butter

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Telesilla's Porn Battle round 5 [here](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/porn_battle/9677.html?thread=1620429#t1620429).

_Yak-butter_, thought Duncan with some heat as he threw himself into his morning run, _I’ll yak-butter you!_ Images of Methos — sprawled across his bed like an invitation to riot; licking a bead of moisture from the rim of his beer-bottle; tousled and damp from a shower, towel not quite slipping down narrow hips; grinning up at him over the pages of a book, the blade of a sword, the rim of a glass of good whiskey — played through his mind. Duncan ran harder, attempting to subsume the images in effort, but sweat and exertion brought their own images: Methos, sweat-slick, writhing in the sheets of his bed, panting and hard in the aftermath of Kristin’s Quickening; arched back beneath him, heavy sex moving, pressing against his own with urgent friction, the look of need and ecstasy on his face as Duncan brought him, finally, almost agonizingly, to climax and release.

The pounding of his feet on the pavement and the cool breeze in his face from off the water were not helping reduce the heat or the pounding in his groin. What had possessed the man to show up like that? To show _off_ like that? Helping a man through Quickening aftermath was one thing, no more than the mutual grope and tumble of friendly relief, the simple comfort of another body in the bed, warm and familiar. This was invitation to something more than that. This was invitation in.

Duncan’s groin tightened again and he almost stumbled at the thought. Invitation into those beautifully tight, beautifully worn jeans. Into that mesmerizing channel between those beautifully firm buttocks. Buttered buttocks, slick and sweet and he was going to do himself an injury if he didn’t stop that line of thought _right now_. He stopped and leaned against the wall of the building he was passing, forcing his breath even, his heartbeat and thoughts to slow. Warm, yeasty air filled his nose. Fresh bread baking. He considered the pleasure of bread hot from the oven, and could taste the memory of it, slathered thick with butter straight from the churn, creamy-sweet. He remembered Graham, baking, dusted with flour, feeding him buttered bread, their mouths devouring, hungry for taste and touch, fingers digging into the butter-safe and slick, swift, piercing pleasure.

He turned and pressed his shoulders to the cool bricks, looking to the grey sky. It was going to rain. It was a weekend, Richie was on walkabout and wouldn’t be back for days if not weeks, Joe was breaking in a new band and new waitstaff. No crises. No commitments.

Methos in his bed, invitation in every line of his body.

Invitations … could be accepted.

Duncan bought three loaves of bread just out of the oven. The smiling girl at the counter (flour on her nose, an appreciative twinkle in her eye) scooped a more than generous quantity of butter (Oh yes, we get it from a local dairy, three times a week) into a tub for him and encouraged him to go directly home. (That butter’ll melt with all that bread in the bag. Best get it home quick!)

In the few blocks it took to get home the bread did soften the butter, but that was all to the good. Duncan left the tub on the counter as he stripped our of his running clothes and let a rain of hot water sluice away both sweat and apprehension. Methos, furled in the bedclothes, had cracked a eye at his entrance, sniffed blissfully at the bread and smiled to see him. He turned off the water, wrung the wet from his hair, toweled himself dry. Fresh towels in hand (he was _not_ getting butter in the bed) he went back out into the bread-scented loft. He was still more than half-hard. Walking, naked, intentional, all his senses aroused, only added to the rising warmth.

Methos, lying back against the pillows, all unfurled, was watching him. Deliberately, Duncan cut two thick slices of the still-warm bread and buttered them slowly and thoroughly. He could hear the rain, pattering against the windows. He thought he could hear Methos swallow across the room. His prick twitched. He turned, bread in hand, butter in hand, and let Methos drink him in with his eyes. He walked over to the bed, watching the color rise in Methos’ cheeks, his breath shorten, his thighs fall open and the flesh between them lengthen and darken.

"The butter’s fresh. I could make you butter-tea, if you’d like." The caress of Methos’ fingers against his as he took the slice of bread made Duncan catch his breath.

"I can think of a better use for it than that, Highlander." Laughter threaded the desire in Methos’ voice. "I expect you can too." His eyes glinted as Duncan spread the burgundy towels on the dark sheets and set the tub of butter ceremonially in the middle. "In fact, I’m sure of it." He took a bite of bread, and now it was Duncan’s turn to gulp, watching Methos chew and swallow and lick his lips, all the while looking up at him.

There was a smear of butter at the corner of Methos’ mouth. Duncan put his own bread down blindly, out of the way. And then his tongue was tasting buttered Methos, and Methos was writhing and trembling under him. He licked a path from lips to ear, along the tender line of his jaw, nibbled down that long, strong throat until hands caught his shoulders, pushed him just far enough away that he might hear the words among the breathless, eager noises.

"I want..."

"Is this," One of Duncan’s hands had found the butter, scooped and slid behind Methos’ eager sex, between firm cheeks, seeking ... there. "What you were thinking of?"

"Yes! Oh, yessss..."

Methos had hardly made a sound with Kristin’s fire in his veins but Duncan’s buttered fingers made him moan, moving in him slow and thick and sure, on him tight and slick and strong. For a moment, Duncan thought that he might come just from hearing and watching Methos come apart in his hands, but both of them wanted more. Methos whimpered when he withdrew his fingers, arched and cried out when Duncan entered him, taking him deep, not letting Duncan hesitate to fill him. For a long moment held still, amazed at the tight heat that held him, the needy, wonderful noises Methos was making. Then Methos was moving under him, they were moving together, and it was all fire and light and astonishing, slick friction until he could bear it no longer and his seed was bursting forth, a dazzling explosion behind his eyes. Moments after he came, Methos was convulsing around him, shuddering and gasping, drawing further shocks of pleasure from what he had thought utterly spent.

For a long, long moment they lay tangled together, stilled joined, until Duncan’s sex slipped free and Methos, his face pressed in the hollow of Duncan’s shoulder shivered against him. Languid, boneless, Methos arranged himself around Duncan. Duncan could sense the tiny shocks and pulses running through that long form. They echoed the ones he was still feeling. He relished the soft breath at his collarbone, the weight at his side and the hand on his hip. Moving gently, he tugged the counterpane up over Methos’ shoulders.

The rain light painted soft shadows on pale skin, made mysteries of the hollows and curves shaped by bones as old as bread (and oh, the Old Man would chide and laugh, if he could hear that thought — Nothing like as old as bread, leavened or otherwise, you daft Scot — ) but moved by a wit and will as fresh as the new made loaf on the counter. Duncan felt his heart squeeze and stutter. This ... was so much more than lust.

And on that thought he rested his cheek against Methos' soft, spiky hair and slept.


End file.
